


within the bone

by wetbreadstick



Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Breathplay, Dom/sub Undertones, Hair-pulling, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 05:44:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6411136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wetbreadstick/pseuds/wetbreadstick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryouma understood this complete abandonment of pride more than anyone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	within the bone

**Author's Note:**

> this was a commissioned work

It starts, of course, like it always does.

The sheets are silk and already sweat-slicked under his palms, rubbing barely sensitive over skin well-used to the treatment. This is nothing he’s not used to-- nothing he hasn’t _asked_ for, now and in the past, a taboo all too familiar on his tongue.

“Head down,” he hears Ryouma say, and he obeys, dutiful, head dropping between his arms. It’s shameful, this; lowering himself before the one he’d once called an enemy, blood thrilling excited and hot through every part of him. Heat smooths over his skin in pink blotches, dusting the tips of his ears, the curves of his straining shoulders, dying his now-hidden face red.

Marx is bare where Ryouma settles close, clothed, palms still gloved even with armor long shed. A hand finds its way over the back of his thigh, possessive, and he presses back into the touch without thinking.

Fingers dig in when he moves, pressing hard indents into pale skin, a firm unspoken _don’t move._ This, above everything else they do, is the worst-- the _waiting_. Ryouma’s good at making him wait. He knows how to drag everything out sweet and slow, edging just on the painful side of denial, knows how to use the infuriating feather-light touches that do nothing but elicit desperation.

In some way, Marx almost envies him. The patience Ryouma has is very _Hoshidan_ , a well-practiced sadism where he goes from slow-burn to _hard-fast_ and then back again right when the moment’s right for it. _Your legs shake when you’re about to come,_ Ryouma’d said once, laughing against Marx’s gasping mouth, _that’s when I know to stop._

Marx grimaces at the memory, drawn back to himself with a snap when Ryouma pulls away. From under a curtain of hair, gaze slanted back under his arm, he watches with some measure of relief when Ryouma finally sheds his gloves, too, fabric dropping forgotten onto the bedspread. He moves again, then, shifting on his knees behind Marx, calloused hands finding a familiar hold on his hips. The touch of bare skin is scorching, and Marx bites back a shiver.

“Go on,” Ryouma’s words ring through the air, commanding, “spread your legs wider.”

His heart leaps into his throat, thick and choking, flooding a fresh wave of heat through him as he does. The silk drags under his knees, raw, and he swallows past the arousal heavy on his tongue. _Sworn enemy,_ his brain reminds him succinctly, _ordering you around. You’re listening to him._

It’s humiliating, to say the least-- spread open, naked, vulnerable under the critical eye of the man perched behind him. Marx’s breath catches when he hears the click of a tin being opened, then the muted wet sound of familiar lotion. His hands clench in the bedspread when slippery fingers slick up against him, persistent and heated, nudging up against the furl of muscle before pressing in, in, without any preamble.

Marx exhales slow, thighs tensing at the sensation, the burn and stretch around fingers twisting smooth and wet inside him. It’s already this good-- there’s already pleasure shuddering warm and familiar down his spine, warmth seeping outward from his core to trickle through his limbs.

“You’re being awfully quiet,” Ryouma muses, fingers pushing in deep, curling, pressing a hard angle. “Nothing to say?”

Marx laughs, almost scornful, the sound hitching in his chest when Ryouma’s fingers nestle somewhere sweet. The rhythm is steady, languid, a purposeful tease meant to reduce Marx to nothing.

“What would you have me say?” He answers, words grinding out breathless, fingers clenching hard in the sheets. Without the bed underneath them, without Ryouma’s hands grounding him, he’s sure he’d float away somewhere else-- the rustle of fabric underneath them already sounds far away, senses all zeroing in on the steady-spark in-out of Ryouma’s fingers. They drag hot and rough and then he _speeds up_ \-- Marx gasps out a curse, tensing at the obscene wet squelching that comes with it.

“You could sing my praises,” Ryouma says, nonchalant. The even tone of his voice is maddening, a stark contrast to the broken, hitched breaths forced out of Marx’s throat with every thrust of his fingers. “Since you’re so fond of lowering yourself beneath me.”

The words make his skin burn, a shudder rippling through him with every push of Ryouma’s fingers. There’s a part of him that wants to rebel, still, the proud prince with strong shoulders-- but the shame that slowly starts to eat away at his edges feels better, somehow. Ryouma’s words reverberate through every part of him, thorough, an inexorable gravitational pull. Ryouma reaches down, then, tangles strong fingers in his hair and _pulls,_ yanks hard, tugging his head back at a harsh angle, and a bit-off groan rolls from his tongue. His scalp aches with the force of it, sensation only pouring into the building heat shaking through him, fingers clenching and unclenching when Ryouma angles _up_ , and _oh,_ his mouth falls open, eyes fluttering shut, familiar molten pressure building higher and higher euphoric through him and then--

Ryouma _stops,_ sliding his fingers out with a quick huff of laughter. The sound’s almost drowned out by the rushing of blood in Marx’s ears, hammer-hard where his body strains for the denied pleasure, finding nothing but frustration and a domineering hold in his hair. He hears himself shudder out an exhale, frustrated, slanting a look at Ryouma out of the corner of his eye.

“I didn’t hear any praises.” He says, matter-of-fact, and Marx utters an incredulous noise. The pressure behind his navel is near unbearable, searing right through him-- he’s lost patience, already, even where Ryouma’s just begun. “Were you waiting for the real thing?”

“This seems real enough,” Marx manages, hoarse, voice tinged with impatience. He can feel the heat of Ryouma’s body, hovering tantalizingly close but not enough, not skin-to-skin like he’d wanted so desperately. “Get a move on, you sadist.”

That earns him another laugh, rougher this time, and Ryouma yanks his head back once more. The resulting sting sends another bolt of heat zipping right to his core, and his skin pulls into goosebumps as he feels Ryouma lean down close. His lips brush up against the edge of Marx’s ear, other hand smoothing over the inside of his thigh, still wet, slicking up to where his cock hangs heavy and untouched between his legs.

“Ah,” Ryouma laments, voice rumbling close enough to make his hair stand on end, “you were close, weren’t you?” Those same fingers wrap tight around him, a firm, practiced pressure, and his thumb traces just under the thick ridge of the head. Marx swallows hard, quashing the harsh response burning in his throat, instead reveling in the sensation of Ryouma’s hand working him over, another slow-building rhythm. “My apologies.” Precum smears under his palm, smoothing the glide, slick over heated, aching flesh.

“You’re not _sorry,”_ Marx manages, a rough half-desperate laugh breathed out, rocking forward into Ryouma’s hand. His touch, calloused and sure, makes his skin prickle and draw tight-- he can feel himself still wound up, still close, heavy and laden with heat ready to spill over. Swallowing hard, he tilts his head back into Ryouma’s grip, muscles slackening as tension winds high and hot in his stomach once more.

Ryouma’s _good_ at this. He hadn’t always been, when they’d first started this-- hadn’t known where to touch, where to look-- until Marx had taken his hand and placed it palm-flat against his throat. _Like this,_ he’d urged, quiet, _squeeze tight._ Uncertainty had flashed over his expression for barely a moment, but after that first night he’d never seen it again. (Those particular bruises didn’t fade for a week; no one dared question him, though the side glances were impossible to ignore. He wore Ryouma’s fingerprints like pearls.)

“I suppose not.” Ryouma says, and his hand stills again.

Marx can practically feel Ryouma's smile burning into the back of his head, sensation tingling along with the hair at his scalp. He wants to curse him, to flip them both over and _take_ what he wants-- it’s a prince’s right to have anything he desires, after all -- but this is exquisite somehow in all its frustrating desperation, laying arousal hot and thick over his mind.

“I’d like you to ask for it.” Ryouma’s voice draws his attention back through the heat fogging over his eyes, another shiver threading unbidden through his thighs. There’s something different in his tone, now-- it’s stone-hard, a quiet demand, leaving no room for opposition. A prince’s voice, to be sure. Marx knows the power of wielding that voice. “Go on.”

“You enjoy this far too much.” Marx says, rumbles deep in his throat, masking the desperation creeping in at his edges. “I’m beginning to regret giving you this power.”

Ryouma exhales another puff of laughter, hot and amused down to its core. “You don’t regret this at all.” It’s matter-of-fact, low and close to his ear. “Otherwise you wouldn’t ask for it.” A pause. “You wouldn’t ask _me_ for it.”

That makes Marx take pause, heart hammering loud enough he’s sure Ryouma can hear it. All the layers of royalty he wore like a cloak hid something so precious, so private-- the secret desire for submission laid a stark contrast to everything his personality should entail. There’s Nohrian blood in his veins-- begging should be something far below him. Ryouma understood this complete abandonment of pride more than anyone else.

“--please.” The word comes like water through a dam, quiet and seeping slow and cautious. His own voice, now, no longer sounds like his own-- it comes from somewhere far-off, from somewhere tucked away deep inside his own shame. Ryouma draws out this part of him like no one else could. Marx’s words are secret, here, drawn from a hidden wellspring of forbidden desire. Like this, he’s given everything he could never admit to wanting.

“Please what?” Ryouma’s breath scatters warm over his shoulder, sound close to his ear, head dipping to mouth over the sheen of sweat on his shoulders. His voice rolls thunder, hair brushing lightning over his skin, and Marx shivers again. He can feel himself leaking onto the sheets below, obscene, hard and stretched open and wanting.

“ _Please._ ” Again, half-irritated and louder, skin cooling wet where Ryouma’s teeth drag firm over the jut of his shoulder. He’s dizzy with it. “--get _on_ with it.”

Ryouma laughs again. “Not what I had in mind,” he says, rough, hand sliding from Marx’s hair and coming to grip his forearm, “but it’ll do for now.” He grabs hard, and with a firm, fluid motion, he flips him over onto his back. Marx’s breath leaves him in a _whmpf_ of surprise, ceiling spinning above him, before Ryouma comes into clear view in front of him.

For a moment, they’re both silent, Marx’s chest heaving with shuddery breaths-- Ryouma’s hand comes to slide up the back of his thigh again, and he pushes his knee up, up towards his chest, folding him back and on display. His eyes lay Marx bare, defenseless, more vulnerable than being naked could ever render him.

“To think that you’d lower yourself like this,” Ryouma wonders, eyes unreadable even as they crinkle up at the corners. Amusement is familiar where it’s stamped over his entire face, almost mocking in its genuinity. “You must’ve finally understood the kind of scum you are.”

Marx swallows back a retort, skin burning with a new anger -- though he knows the words are not genuine, they stir something instinctively defensive in him. He raises his chin, a last measure of haughty defiance, meeting Ryouma’s eyes straight on. Ryouma’s stare gleams, derisive, hands rough and unmoving where he keeps Marx bent in half. “You sound like your brother.” Marx finally manages, scornful, lofting a pale eyebrow.

“Be quiet.” Ryouma says, voice suddenly trailing into something hard, eyes flinty and cold as he takes in the sight of him. “It is not your place to speak.” His free hand, the one not pressing his thigh back to his chest, slides down to find where he’s hard and leaking against the soft skin of his stomach. Again, those well-worn calloused fingers circle around his cock, stroking slow, maddening and sparking heat over his skin.

“Will you stop me from speaking?” Marx challenges, voice hitching when Ryouma squeezes tight around him. His palm is hot, wet with precum and lubricant, pressure firm enough to tease the sharp edges of his orgasm back to the surface. A distressed noise catches in his throat when Ryouma _stops_ again, mouth pulling into a frown, displeased.

“I will.” Ryouma says, a threat, and Marx barely has a chance to pull in a breath before Ryouma’s hand releases his thigh and flies up to his throat. Another bolt of heat spreads through him when his fingers curl around the column of his neck, palm pressing at his windpipe-- already, it’s hard enough to cut off his breath, colors just beginning to spark at the edges of his vision.

Ryouma pauses, watching him with something akin to satisfaction-- like a child looking at a particularly interesting bug-- and Marx suppresses the urge to struggle, to rebel, to twist and fight off the man holding him down and stripping his power from him.

But he wants. Oh, he _wants._

“You belong under me.” Ryouma breathes, head dipping down close again, squeezing around Marx’s throat hard enough to make his breath stop. “You understand that, don’t you?” His eyelids fall to half-mast, mouth curling up at the corners, hand dropping from his dick and down to where he’s barely stretched, wet and shining in the half-light provided by the torches lining the wall.

There’s something so intimately humiliating about being dominated like this in his own home-- surrounded by the stone walls he’d grown up inside, come to rule over time-- and it’s thrilling, shameful, heat bouncing through his muscles when Ryouma nudges two fingers inside him once more. Marx presses down onto them, impatient, body feeling almost fit to burst with the intensity of the sensations Ryouma’s hands bring to him.

“And you think,” Ryouma’s fingers crook inside him, blunt and nudging up against a sweet spot, pausing to listen to the way Marx’s breath catches-- “you deserve this, don’t you? That you’re good enough for my attention?” His fingers twist, smooth and wet, before he’s thrusting them in and out with a loose rhythm.

Marx lets the words wash over him like an ocean wave, stilling the dissent curling in his veins, embracing the thickness in and around his throat. His eyelids flutter, brief, hips jerking up against nothing-- the pace Ryouma sets is unsatisfying, barely enough to bring forth pleasure, hand working him over with deliberately slow motions. His words are blocked behind Ryouma’s palm, caught between the physical pressure and his own desire for satisfaction.

“You’re lucky I even look at someone like you.” Ryouma continues, breathless, hungrily taking in how Marx’s expression changes with every labored breath and thrust of his fingers. The traditional respect so normally prevalent in his voice is gone -- the lack of it is frightening, mocking making a home in Ryouma’s words like it belongs there.

Black edges in at the corners of Marx’s vision, Ryouma’s voice tinny in his ears-- the rough drag of his fingers in-out is the only thing keeping him tethered, awake, light flashing behind his lids as Ryouma fucks him steady, harder with every motion, winding heat up tighter and tighter inside Marx’s abdomen as he gasps quietly for breath.

Right when he’s sure he’ll pass out Ryouma lets go of his throat, both hands pulling back and leaving him empty. Marx heaves in a breath, blinking sparks out of his eyes, tremor running through his unsteady legs as his gaze slides to where Ryouma’s shifting to tug the hem of his own pants down. He’s hard, proud and flushed in a thick thatch of curls, taking himself in hand to stroke slick onto his cock-- Marx can hear Ryouma’s breath coming a little faster, watching pink just dusting over his face, air hot and muggy between them.

“What are you waiting for?” Marx breaks the silence, hoarse, goading him on even as he allows his legs to fall open wider. Even though their breath makes humidity press thick against every part of him, the wetness at his rim is cool in the night air-- he feels empty, frustrated, denied something his entire body craved. Ryouma blinks before his expression changes, hard again, and he’s leaning to grab and push his thigh up once more. Marx suppresses a wince as his nails dig red half-moons into his skin.

“Know your place.” Ryouma says, voice deep and rolling as if to command invisible armies in the very room they’re in. Marx offers a half-smile, all teeth, self-assurance still in the posture of his shoulders and gleam of his eyes. Ryouma’s brow furrows briefly before uttering an incredulous laugh, shifting closer on his knees, pulling Marx closer with hands wrapped around his legs-- he lines himself up, blunt head of his cock pushing against slick, intimate skin, all wet and flexing heat where his fingers had spread him open.

“Show me my place.” Marx challenges, voice still gravelly, and meets Ryouma’s eyes with a steady gaze.

Ryouma pushes into him, eyes shifting greedily to where his cockhead opens him up, wet and sliding thick into him. There’s a burn that comes with it, well-known stretch, and Marx’s back arches with a quiet gasp when Ryouma bottoms out inside him. He’s dizzy, still, chest stuttering and heaving with the breaths he’d been denied. It burns in his throat, and he meets Ryouma’s eyes hazily as his leg involuntarily quivers, anticipation running electric through every part of him.

“You take it so well,” Ryouma breathes, mouth curling satisfied where he looks back up to meet Marx’s eyes. “You were made to be like this, weren’t you?”

Marx doesn’t even have the chance to be affronted-- Ryouma’s hand is back on his throat in a heartbeat, squeezing tight and near possessive, before he’s drawing back and slamming back into him with a hard thrust. It pushes a choked noise from Marx’s throat, desperate and bursting stars behind his eyes, pleasure sudden and sweet at the movement.

Ryouma pulls back before doing it again-- a rough movement, slow at first, before he ramps up the rhythm and then he’s fucking into him with sharp, smooth motions, hand pinning Marx tight back against the sheets as he watches his face.

Every thrust pushes heat out from his core, drawn tight and intense by the half-gasped breaths he pulls in, lungs straining for air the same way his entire body strains for pleasure-- Marx arches off the bed at a particularly rough thrust, Ryouma’s cock shoving thick and hard up against his prostate. He’s near gasping with it, with the onslaught of sensations assaulting him from all sides-- the room spins with it, sheets crumpling up underneath them, sweat trickling down the back of his neck.

He can hear the bed creaking underneath them, finely carved headboard smacking against the wall with every hard thrust, black edging in at the corners of his vision-- there’s no breath left in him to cry out but even so, a cracked, airy noise catches in his throat, body straining tense and tight. Automatically, a leg comes up, hooking over the back of Ryouma’s thigh to keep him close, close-- his hands come up to grip Ryouma’s wrist, the one locking air out of his lungs, nails digging near enough to draw blood.

For a moment, Ryouma’s rhythm almost falters, uncertainty flickering over his expression at the grip on his wrist-- but Marx pulls, pulls, pushes his palm harder against his throat, heart pounding fit to burst. At that, Ryouma’s eyes grow dark, and he amps up the pace again even as he grips tighter around Marx’s neck.

Marx can feel himself helpless with it, molten heat building fast and hard at his core, toes curling every time Ryouma slams into him just right-- he wouldn’t mind it if he passed out, he thinks distantly, pleasure winding just as tight as Ryouma’s fingers around his neck. This time Ryouma doesn’t stop-- Marx’s orgasm builds white-hot pressure with every thrust, every hard slam of his hips, two more, one more-- until he’s coming with a burst of pleasure, sharp and desperate and accentuated by the harsh burn in his lungs. He can hear Ryouma’s ragged breaths as he fucks him through it, body jerking as his cock twitches, spurting sticky white over his belly-- his skin is rubbed raw with silk, with Ryouma’s hands, with his own breath locked burning in his throat.

“ _Gods,_ ” he heaves in a massive breath as Ryouma lifts his hand from his throat once more, vision swimming-- his body quakes through the aftershocks, finally satisfied as his hips weakly rock through it.

Surprise catches him off guard when Ryouma pulls out, suddenly-- it’s a sudden, cold emptiness, mouth open and wet with the loss. Marx jerks, then, when Ryouma grunts, grabbing his thigh and heaving it over his shoulder-- his jaw clenches shut when his fingers find his way back to slide along him, pushing inside, wet and hot and looser than before.

“What are you--” Marx begins, a half-demand, before Ryouma’s flashing him a near-smirk as he starts to fuck him with his fingers once more. It’s oversensitive-- Marx’s back arches hard with a shout, a hand gripping tight in the sheets as every thrust of his fingers grinds on the edge of overstimulated pain. His entire body’s a live wire, still trembling in the wake of his past orgasm, and yet-- yet still, there’s another heat building inside him once more, raw and painful with pressure blinding him at all sides.

“You’re going to come again.” Ryouma rumbles, and through his haze Marx can’t tell if it’s a comment or an order or a question-- but he’s _right,_ somehow, in that he can feel another orgasm rising fast and sharp through his frazzled nerves. He gasps through it, more breathless than he was with Ryouma’s hand choking him senseless. Ryouma’s relentless, brutal, not letting up with every shove of his fingers up against his prostate-- _it’s impossible,_ Marx thinks, dizzy, _I can’t come again--_

He shouts out a pained noise as he _does,_ heat bronze and flashing red behind his eyes as he comes again, dry and hot and strained as his spent cock twitches against nothing. Ryouma’s face blurs in his vision as it rips through him raw, pushing ragged groans from him with every sharp movement drawing it out slow and painful.

Marx’s legs shake where one’s hiked over Ryoma’s shoulder, other draped limp against the bedspread as the other withdraws his fingers. He twitches at that, skin jumping at the lack of contact, every touch brushing sparks over every hypersensitive part of him. He’s wrung out, dry, aching hollow and sore-- his gaze shifts to Ryouma once more as he shifts to wrap fingers around himself, a low groan falling from his lips as he strokes himself jerky and quick.

“Up on your elbows,” Ryouma demands, and Marx is almost pleased to hear the lack of composure in his voice as well. Still, he obeys, slow and unsteady as he props himself up on his elbows. His eyes shift to meet Ryouma’s heated gaze, watching his muscles shift under sweat-slicked skin.

Ryouma comes without warning-- he moans low, something that could be a mutter of a name, and Marx hisses out a breath as he flinches back from where cum spills over his skin, hot and slick and striping his chest and stomach with white.

“Next time,” Ryouma says, catching his breath and leaving no room for silence, “we’re going to try for three times.”

Marx lifts a brow at him again, amusement flickering through his weary bones, eyes briefly flicking down to where cum cools tacky where it’s splattered obscene over his chest. Somehow, he’s warm, and he utters a noise that’s half-amused.

“Are you trying to break me?” Marx asks, voice rough still, and Ryouma laughs.

  
“Only if you want me to.” Ryouma says, easy, and the promise in his words makes Marx’s vulnerability feel like home.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! hope you enjoyed my f i l t h
> 
> tumblr and twitter @ wetbreadstick


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